


Threes

by Vishihan



Series: Proto Dwell Verse [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Dwell, Functionalist, Mech Preg, Multi, Sparklings, cannon/what cannon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 6,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1611551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vishihan/pseuds/Vishihan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of three relationships during the rise and fall of functionalism. Or when the author attempts to play with transformer reproduction and opens a whole can of worms labeled ooh shit and rabid plot bunny.<br/>Told mainly in drabbles since author is attempting to update everyday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strike part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chap 1 – Strike gets half way blown up, loses a sparkling, and has to deal with the annoying fragging Functionalist consultant about joining the ‘Repopulation effort’ or Strike has a very shitty day and wishes to punch someone in the face. 
> 
> Warnings: Mention of a miscarriage, injury, state approved coercion of a minority group 
> 
> Lets get back to writing

He floats. Strike has moments of near awareness, lapses of restlessness when his optics power on, viewing the world through the green filter of a CR chamber before being dragged back over by exhaustion and sedatives. 

He knows the sparkling is lost before they fish him out of the tank. His memory has looped back to the raid, the heft of the stupid young grounder as Strike pushes him up and over. The shiny sleekness of the armor of the youngster’s thighs and stench of spilling energon, and the heat of it as it splatters his face. 

Fragging stupid kid, too immature, not enough experience in the field, overeager, nearly zealous to prove himself. Strike watch the power play, the smile on the older siblings face as he signed and tried to keep the kid alive. To pull off the raid, get the energon, all with a green horn kid to clumsy to stay on his slagging pedes. 

The clatter and pop of the stun grenade, the wash of light that burned his optics and fragged with his field, sending a feedback of sharp crippling pain. Strike has a moment of time to regret the use of stimulates and boosters, the buildup and permeate damage to his neuro-nets and a hot wash of pain chases and the fragmented memories merge with older dreams. 

Strike can’t feel the sparkling. The nebulous and budding awareness was gone, not even mature enough to form parts larger than the end digit of his smallest finger. He knew before they float him in the tank, optics shot and audios playing back a dull roar. Too much pain over his spark chamber, too much energon lost, too shot to get his shit together and wrap around the tiny flicker of his bitlet and keep it with him. 

He floats till he doesn’t. The berth is cold, lights institutional blinding bright, the solid cuff on his wrist is tight and chaining him to the guard rails. Strike is in pain. It is a dull throb mainly in his left leg and pelvis. His spark is sore and tired. From lost, from age, from recovery. 

The medic is jaded, tells him the sparklet is gone. That he is crippled, lopsided, left thruster gone and they aren’t required to replace it. That his case worker will be here in a joor and feed him shitty low grade energon. 

Strike hates his case worker. Has hated the mech since the first time they met for a petty larceny charge when he was a youngling and stupid. Hated him before he knew what happened to mechs and femmes that said yes. Lobotomized and continuously sparked by those the functionalist deemed worthy of providing CNA to the repopulation effort. Strike might have tolerated the mech if he didn’t buy his own shtick. 

It is the same spiel as the last couple dozen times, that it is his duty, that he would be providing a great service. That he would want for nothing, all the charges would disappear, that he would be pampered. Well, there is a bit of change. Strike isn’t getting younger. His best vorns are well behind him and his case worker is sorry that he lost this sparklet, since it was his first and they would have found it a good home. 

That tips the hand. He isn’t getting bailed out this time. The charges aren’t going to be dropped and like his younger vorns of petty crime he is going to have to do time. Strike hates him. Hates the functionalist and Nominus Prime and himself for going on with the raid when he knew it was going to be a cluster fuck. He still doesn’t hate himself enough to be some sort of elite plaything. 

They allow him to have one comm. call. Strike tries to compose a message, tries to explain how bad he fragged up. The loss of the sparkling, the abandonment from his boss – who might also be dead, of everything that had blown up and left him a wreck and in the end… he simply settles on telling Windgap that he is sorry. 

He spends a mega-cycle in the prison infirmity. The medic, who he never learns the designation of and doesn’t care to, rebrands his clan symbol on his wings. It’s familiar in a way he is uncomfortable with, his ‘Tor had been the first to etch the avian onto his frame and after he offline, various clan members and only clan members had repaired the emblem and now some shitty medic is doing it.

It is one of many things the functionalist have tried to assert control over. It is illegal for him as the ‘reproduction capable forged minority’ to be without some identifying marking in a visible spot. So the shitty medic brands him with his clan’s emblem. It is chunky and char black and at odds with the silver threaded ghost on his right wing tip.

His case worker comes again; when the guards for one of the many asteroid prison camps are there to take custody of him, and attempts again to bring him to enlightenment. Strike wants to punch him in the face. After a moment of thought, he does punch him in the face. As if he could get any more fragged then he already is. His nose crunches under his fist and he is for that single moment he is content with his life.


	2. Strike part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prison life. Everyone thinks And is crazy, probably because he is. 
> 
> Warning: Tad bit of violence, mention of cannibalism and serial killing – And is just a mess. 
> 
> OCs list : And, Bulwark, Highlands, Strike 
> 
> Rest of the cast is cannon 
> 
> Lets try to update once a day

There are seven of them on the asteroid belt, not counting the warden’s mate. Bulwark is decent for a prison warden, fair, though how much is Highlands’ influence Strike isn’t sure. Strike meet five of his cell block when they brought him in, and was forced to sit through a debriefing, rules, intimation, blah, blah, usual slag. Afterwards they brought him to the prison’s medic for the implantation of a contraceptive implant. The six was in isolation, partly being in the last few decacycles of his carrying cycle but mostly because he bit three digits off one of the guards. Clean through. Then ate them. 

Roulette is a hard aft femme. Strike prefers talking with her sister, even if Shadow is an airhead. They are both in for murder, having hunted down the mechs that killed their other sister – Strike sort of wants to know if there is a mech in their clan. He doesn’t recognized their clan symbol charred in door kibble. 

Rook is a mini bot and serving for public dissent, inciting a riot, and slander. Strike knows his clan symbol, the crossed stylus and trusts the mini’s opinion. Correspond as a clan is old and filled with truth seekers. 

The other mini is just pffh. Skysickle is annoying, twitchy, and warbles about in binary and Strike forgot what he did to end up sentence the moment he was told. Skysickle wasn’t worth the memory space. Strike ignores the smaller mech when able to. 

Strike knows Brushguard. They had done work together, and Strike spent a good breem snickering at how the mech got caught poisoning his mark. Brushguard found his own mistake hilarious. 

The last is And. Strike is not sure how anyone got named after a conjunction. He’s flat out crazy, the only Dwell that had reproduced in the group, and close to having his third sparkling when Strike arrived. And killed people, not in revenge like the sisters and not under contract like him and Brushguard. And just flated out like murdering people and rumor around the block was he also ate them. 

Processer glitched fragger. 

They spend their solar cycles sorting ore and energon crystals from rocks. Boring and endless work.


	3. Strike part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Update? Or sorts… work has sapped things, but hey interaction drabbles   
> And gets a nickname, still hasn't shown up.   
> Security gets talked about

“Why do you want to hear my life story?” Strike sorted the ore as he talked, separating it in piles of either rock, ore, energon, or both. “It not that interesting.” He hefted a piece of asteroid, blue gleaming in the depths of the rock and pushed it at the energon pile. 

“Because he can’t let things lie,” Shadow Striker replied, taking a pile of rocks to be crushed into fine powder. “Journalists, they love a scandal and you look like you are full of them.”

“I am not a scandal journalist. I report the truth.” Rook grumbled, halfheartedly annoyed. “It’s something different. We haven’t heard your stories yet and”

“You ain’t going to,” he interrupted, rolling his optics at the mini. “I’m not parading out my life for your sick enjoyment.” Strike eyed a lumpy piece of ore wrapped around some sort of crystalline formation. “Shove it in the ore pile?” 

“Yes, if it isn’t energon it goes with the ore.” Rook turned back to his own pile of work. “Twenty questions?” 

“Only if I was slag faced, and where are you going to get the high grade at?” Strike question, shifting to draw another load of ore over. “This has to be the most inefficient system of sorting ever invented.” 

“I have a theory is a form of torture.” Brushguard lifted up a piece of energon, judging the quality. “That they are slowly destroying our will to exist by doing busy work. Though I’m sure our guards are just as bored. So it becomes a question who is being punished.” 

Strike arched back, rubbing at the small of his back, wings hiked out of his way. “Mmh.” He glanced up and idly waved at the guards clustered above them on the catwalk. Looked like they were starting a game of cards. Bored slaggers. “Lack guard.”

“Pffh, Rook a journalist. Skysickle couldn’t intimidate a glitch-mouse.” Shadow Striker idly kicked the second mini as he complained. “Me and my sis just wanted to kill the afts that offline our sister. You’re a gimp. Brush here, yeah… he isn’t all that scary.” She brought a hammer down, breaking rock into little pieces. “And is kept in an inhibitor claw for a reason. So the sole one of us that have ate mechs ins’t that much of a thread.”

“Andi.”

“What?” 

Strike shifted the piles around. “And, I gave him a nickname since and And did this is just, yeah, not happening. So now he is Andi.”

“You gave the glitching cannibal a nickname.” 

“Yes. Try it. Andi.” Strike stressed the name, looking over the others. “Least you can do is humor me, calling me a gimp.”

“You’re missing your left thruster. You’re a gimp.”


	4. Paradigm – Part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paradigm decided to butt in.   
> Strike's caseworker approaches his elder sibling about the remains of the sparklet.

Paradigm enjoyed his job with all its up and downs. He was protecting the future of cyberton even if the mechs and femmes he worked didn’t view it the same way. Vector sigma life giving pulses were slowing to a trickle, less and less Forged were sparked. Cold sparkling had slowed, the All Spark techs wouldn’t say but cybertron was facing a population emergency. 

The Dwell didn’t see what they did as a gift from Primus to better his people. They should be proud of their gifts and that they could do such a miraculous thing as create life. They were Primus’ favored children, truly, met to give freely and provide. 

Though there were times that he wished things could be different. Strike was one of his more difficult cases. Hornetsnest hadn’t helped matters. Paradigm knew the seeker was frosty from other caseworkers. Sharp glossa, haughty and with Windgap birth it had turned to near aggression. Strike hadn’t been planned and Hornet had slowed in age and developed a memory glitch, loosing moments of time. 

Strike treated him as if he was an enemy from the first. It had grown to bitterness when Windgap had left for the army and while they had never been able to have a courteous conversation it had become worse when Hornet offlined. Strike had disappeared into gangs, and Paradigm had only seen him during arrests. Certainly not the best environment to attempt to build a relationship. He was sure it was ruined with this. 

The small box was heavy, not with weight but meaning. Strike was not, would not tell him how he wanted the remains of his miscarried sparkling handled, so the best he could do was deliver them to his elder sibling. 

He sighed and moved towards Windgap, noticing the small Praxian at his side and I.D.ing him as Cinnabar. A young dwell noble and certainly a trouble maker, and drug addict. 

“Windgap?” He called out, moving slowly towards the seeker, box in hand and gathered his words.


	5. Windgap – part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short chap

“I’m going to be gone for the Mega-cycle,” Windgap called, slowly picking up the small box. It was plain, fitting easily in his hands, and near weightless, only the etching of his siblings designation over the top revealing the weight of the box. 

He felt guilty, weighted with knowledge that he hadn’t reached out to his sibling, that he hadn’t searched for his brother and instead was content with the odd comm. message or compressed text. He had been too caught up in his own life. Finding his trine, the arm forces, moving, losing them both and Windgap swore he still heard them. That they were phantoms in his life, whispering in his audio and the sharp nostalgia of recharge loops and bittersweet memories. 

“Mhhm.” 

“Cinnabar?” Windgap sighed, crossing the floor of his apartment and leaned over the couch, looking over the reclining Praxian. “Will you be okay while I handled some business in Vos.” 

Cinnabar shifted slightly, swallowing the rest of the rest stick, snacks sprawled on the low table, holo-screen playing some sort of talk show. “We have fuel?”

Windgap slumped slightly, nodding. “Energon is in the cupboard, snacks in the cooler.” He leaned forward, leaving a soft kiss on the pale faceplates. “The emergency numbers are where they always have been.”

“’K.” Cinnabar shifted, going back to his show. “See you later then.”

“Yeah, later.” Windgap left, shutting the door firmly behind them.


	6. Metalhawk – chap 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Metalhawk

“I don’t understand why you are so insistent I come” the last words died out as Metalhawk stepped in the public mausoleum, last words seeming to echo across the wide space. He finished, irritation bleeding through politeness. 

The A.I chimed, voice coolly amused and Metalhawk was sure she was teasing him. There was a flicker of light, a haze of shape and cool blue and creamy white with a tinge of yellow and nothing. 

Was everything connected to the massive network grid that allowed the A.I.’s access to Vos outside the twelve spiraling towers? Metalhawk could appreciated the amount of work to get such an extensive network in place, but privacy. The A.I. no Heuristic, he had to start thinking of the A.I’s… muses as individuals. Heuristic was feminine, slender grounder, in charge of the medical databases and a medical consultant. Wait. 

it was one thing to walk the mausoleum, though he wished he had some warning so he could have included a proper offering for the deceased. It was another thing to have a slap dashed meeting tossed at him. 

He really was starting to loath them. Metalhawk looked over, taking in the seeker, heavier in the legs and emblem clear on his wings, secondary glyphs below listing Tarn as his place of birth. Dwell then, not a Vos native, he was still getting over the fact that 90 % of the populace could and did if they care to gestate a sparkling to term. And most of them weren’t Dwell, which meant part of a clan or something of that sort. This one, seeker was and clearly showing his parentage, and Heuristic could go to the pits and… ooh, he was talking. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch what you said.” Metalhawk winced, words echoing slightly through the stone work. 

“It’s alright, Heuristic isn’t known for informing mechs of her great plan. You aren’t the first ambassador to be dragged somewhere, nor the last. Hopefully.” The seeker shifted and motioned for him to sit. “I’m Windgap, I’m sure she forgot to mention my designation.” 

“Metalhawk, from Iacon, it is a pleasure and I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.” 

“No, I’m waiting for the priests. They’ll be awhile.”


	7. Lockdown chap 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lockdown wanders the prison and things about things.

Lockdown walked the prison camp, thoughtful. Something was going on, Highlands is compromised. This was supposed to be an in and out bag and drag. And…Andi, that was catchy, was their target. Grab the phraser from the prison, get out and go back to the planet. Bulwark was an added bonus. Stripewire would welcome the mech, forged, intelligent, skilled, healthy.   
If it was merely Brushguard, he would understand. Stripewire had a planet to colonized, just the bare bones of rough sodded planes and a Dwell who specialized in fauna would do wonders in making the planet a home, not just a place to live. They could grabbed Brushguard easy enough, he wasn’t as important as Andi. Stripewire wanted the phraser’s C.N.A. code. Everyone wanted to figure out how that worked. 

Lockdown wanted to figure out how that worked, if it could be made into a mod. He didn’t want the side effect, the brittle flaking plating, and the static clouds in the optics. Phrasing through solid objects wasn’t much use if it left him blind and flaking bits. 

But, they should have left by now. Andi had his sparklet, poor thing barely survived four joor, but the phraser was recovered. Yet, instead of keeping Andi in the medical bay, Highlands had released him back with the rest of the Dwell population and had work to get both Rook and Skysickle a parole board. They should both be out by the end of the mega-cycle if all went well. 

The block the Dwell population was kept had been rebuilt, allowing for more privacy and a safety. Lockdown approved, the two story glass walled and ceiling was easy to observe, eight beds, semi private wash racks. The main thing was they were no longer showering with the rest of the population. It allowed them to touch and kept them among the safety of their kin. Dwell as a group tended not to mess with other Dwell, the occasional dwell who were not in the clan groups tend to be free game. They also tended not to be placed in prison. The rights of the nobility and the senate. 

Highlands had done more than enough. This was supposed to be bag and drag, not altruistic b.s. save the population that hadn’t moved the moment Stripewire had first said frag this slag. Ooh, he helped them. Stripewire didn’t have altruistic motivates, he wanted their coding, enjoyed tearing apart what made his sub grouping ticked, the fame he got for solving problems. Lockdown had seemed enough sparklings, younglings, and adults come in and leave the orbital station. They marketed. 

At first, he had debated if it was Bulwark, this was his command. If the length of time they were staying had to do with an overactive want for Bulwark to prove his command. Which met Highlands hadn’t told Bulwark what was going on. Lockdown wouldn’t put it past the kid. Highlands was young, not a youngling, but he grew up isolated on Stripewire’s orbital station. 

Lockdown still remembered the awe and barely hid uneasiness when he escorted the brat of world. Cybertron was a big, big place for a spacer. Doctored his registration, got him in school, kept him from getting in trouble, a glorified babysitting but Stripewire paid well. 

He walked around the glass dome, watching the seven recharge. Andi was back and the newest one had took the phraser well enough. The mini’s were together, sharing a berth. So were the girls, though they had pushed their berth’s together. Andi was Andi, he had stolen the extra berth to sprawl out on. Brushguard had curled up, Strike… hmm. Strike was up. 

Now that one was interesting. Strike had a rap sheet. Lockdown knew about the Butcher bird clan, they started as a waste land clan. With the Ferali, and that was a other clan group with specializations he would jump on if he could, competed against the Splicers moved on into the cities and settled in Tarn. 

They were Stripewires to go to group for protection but Strike wasn’t one he knew personally. His emblem was off a bit, not the burnt in piece but the silver ghost and claws on the wing was different. Lockdown was use to white and gold and the avian being angled differently. Sub-clan, branch, the clans split off in peculiar ways.


	8. Shortfuse and Gearbox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you want to just write fluff. And sometimes you characters get involved with others just to piss of their parents.

“Did you see him? It was perfect, you were absolutely perfect Fuse.” Gearbox twirled, the bulky frame grounder radiating glee. “Snooty artist and thank you, thank you.” He enveloped the smaller grounder in a hug, twirling him around as he flailed. 

“Put me down, come onnnn down Gear.” Shortfuse kicked, trying to break the strong enveloping grip. “And your ‘Tor is an aft.” Really, how had such a mech created Gearbox was beyond him. “Down,” he ordered this time, voice firm. 

“Sorry, just I’ve never managed to get that reaction out of him. And you managed to do it just by introducing yourself.” Gearbox set his roommate/casual lover down and decided to sprawl out on his berth in the academy room they were sharing. “And you helped me get the nerve to stand up and tell him I don’t want to be a scientist… I just like fixing things.”

“Pffh, he’s an aft.” Shortfuse sat down on the edge of the berth, leaning back on his hands. “And I had to do something. You were like a struck turbohound in art history, and I can just imagine you in chem. I think your professor was going to offline himself if you stayed.” He smiled. “And you are good at it, and everything needs maintenance.” 

“He is… isn’t he? He always says he wants the best for me, but he never listens to me. It’s always you are meant to do important things, science and invention is the answer to all ills, blah, blah, blah. Don’t listen to your Kosir, he is a self-sacrificing twit and has religion on the processor.”

“And I thought my caretaker was a narcissist.” Shortfuse leaned down and dropped a gentle kiss on Gearbox’s helm. “Make sure to invite him to my show next deca-cycle. And maybe your Kosir too. It be crowd gathering if Dai Atlas shows up and the image of them fragging just crossed my processor. It is disturbing on a level I’m not comfortable with.” 

“Because ‘Tor wanted the best genetics for his creation and he is pretty good at sweet talking mechs into following his crazy plans.” Gearbox shifted and sprawled out, resting his helm on Shortfuse’s lap, looking up at him. “And that enough of that.” He reached up, stroking over the other’s neck cables.


	9. Hornetsnest and Stripewire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Turned out these two were part of the same forged batch. The things that come to out when you drabble.

The first thing he saw was light. The second thing was metallic green and matte black. Slender nipped waist and expanse of wings. Femme, seeker, and he reached forward, taking the slender hand to let her pull him up. 

The third was memories, faint echoing of sounds and tones, voices. Telling him where he was, Uraya molten spring plains. Rising songs, hymns of religion, of gossip, of numbers. Three femmes were in his clade. Forty five total, should have been forty eight. 

The forth was an urge, a need to move towards the hazy city in the distance. He looked closer at the seeker, the glowing golden optics and reached out to drag his fingers over her face plates, her neck, reached to touch the wings. 

“Stop that. And you are late.” 

“Late.”

“Yup, you’re the last one up.” She reached over and gently knocked on his helm, face breaking in a wide grin. “Which makes you late, now come along.” She turned, wing jaunty, hips swinging. 

“I can’t be late. There is nothing I am required to be.” He followed, legs pumping as he worked to keep pace. He felt unsteady, ground uneven, the hot springs sending clouds of steam. 

“Nope, you aren’t required to be anywhere but we don’t get to go anywhere till all of us check out.” She flicked her wings. “My designation is Hornetsnest. Have you figured out yours yet?”

“I…” Designation. Who was he. What did he want to be… all safety stops pulled away, stripped down to the core of logic. “Stripwire.” 

“Nice. Glad to have you with us Stripewire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forging I think is an evolved process, likely with the religious sects who tend the hotspots, talk to the protoforms, and register them into the census. 
> 
> Stripewire and Hornetsnest are old, before Nova was a prime.


	10. Stripewire part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stripewire is a crazy shit. Really, can’t think of much else to say about him. 
> 
> Warnings: Extreme body modification / the start of spark ships

Stripewire was up to his elbows in wires and cooling tubes, probing connections as readouts sprawled across the visor attached to his helm. A pale glow flickered and sputtered over his helm, washing him in green light. He carefully extracted himself from the lines, clipped the mass of color coded plastic in place before snapping the light weight panels back. 

He reached up, setting his palm against the glass of the repurposed null field prison, watching the disembody spark rotate. “Ready for phrase two, Dragoon?” He moved onwards, leaving the chamber for the main communication console. 

He knelt, checking the cables and wires before slowly bringing the machine to life, keeping an eye on the status lights. “Dragoon can you hear me?”

A splat of static answered and Stripewire shifted, tuning the sound. “Try now.” He called and listened getting a spatter hiss of contestants. “Close.” A small adjustment and a voice too high pitched to suit the captain echoed. “Sir?”

“Glad you can hear me Dragoon. You are probably feeling a little odd. I’m going to slowly feed you the camera information for this room.” Stripwire started to bring up the cameras. “Your bondmate is doing well,” he said, making small talk and keeping an optic on the stats.


	11. Cinnabar part one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m actually thinking I subconsciously named him Cinnabar because it is close to Cinnamon and a pretty well-known lap dancer stage name. 
> 
> I feel sorry for poor Windgap. 
> 
> Bracket runs a club.

Cinnabar swirled his highgrade, cheap swill but it was doing its jump in numbing the pain around his optic and jaw. Fragging overreacting cheap piece of slag and his ex was lucky he wasn’t pressing charges. 

“Another daddy dump your aft?” 

“Shove it,” he muttered, hunching over his drink and ignoring Bracket. “I’m not working for you, get.” 

“Really, Cinnabar? I’m trying to figure out why I would even want you in my establishment.” The red mini swung up and sat down, looking at him. “Seriously, get yourself sober and stop bouncing from mech to mech kid.”

“Bite me.” Cinnabar chugged his drink, ignoring the burn of highgrade down this throat and slid of the stool. “I don’t need your help.” He stomped his way toward the bar, grumbling. “Interfering stupid hyped up pimp of pleasure models and I’m fine.” He was perfectly fine, once he got a hold of a friend so he had somewhere to stay for the evening. 

He sighed, checking for a reply ping. He could have missed it when Bracket was bothering and settled into sulk mode as it turned up negative. Why was everyone ignoring his calls? Ughh, life was so unfair! Cinnabar groaned and planted his face against the grimy bar surface. 

“Are you alright?”

“I told you I’m perfectly.. all right?” Cinnabar tipped his head, swallowing down all anger. That was a good looking mech. “Um, hi. Sorry about that, thought you were someone else.” He had wings! And maybe not his usual type of mech, he could usual a good polish and was older then he usually went for but he shouldn’t be picky right at the moment. 

 

“Are you sure? You seem to have a dent right here,” the seeker muttered and touched him. Damn, he had some big hands. 

“Just, had an argument with my ex.”


	12. Highlands Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Highlands debates on the family he never met and if he should attempt to rescue said member at the possibility of failing his mission.

He had a holo of his grandcreator. Hornetsnest was on the smaller side for a Seeker, the femme bright metallic green and stripped in pearl white on her legs and helm and with an expanse of black wings and a familiar symbol done up in silver. He knew what she had done for ‘Tor and his eldest brother, for all of them. 

She was the reason he grew up on the orbital station circling a cooling planet newly terraformed that would house a free colony, ruled by Dwell and free of prejudice. Stripewire could care less what shape if any a mech or femme changed into, if they were cold cast or forged. Well, he cared in so much as to acquire their code for his databanks. Stripewire was highly logical and focused on his experiments and data. 

Highlands had visited her graves, a lavish one built by her eldest twins and a second smaller on in the public mausoleum requested by Windgap, her next to last seekerling. He had felt at home at the small shrine. He had left an offering of innermost energon behind. 

Strike was the youngest and they were not supposed to meet. Stripewire sole rule about returning to Cybertron was they were not to have contact with relatives. It should have been easy, he had never meet any of them. He hadn’t had a desire to meet them, but then he stepped on Cybertron and found himself in Vos. 

Hornetsnest had offlined from untreated helm trauma. Trauma that his ‘Tor has caused when he had gotten cold feet and couldn’t go through a second sparkling being taken away from him. No one left the Functionist repopulation efforts and ‘Tor had ran, heavy with a sparkling and dragged all his bad choices to the one person he could trust. 

Grandcreator could have tossed them back but she had smuggled them out, placed herself and her sparkling in danger, had obtained damaged and he was feeling guilty over it. Strike wasn’t horribly older then he was and that might have been the reason. Highlands had been safe and loved and Strike had lived with an injured and slowly failing ‘Tor and disappeared into gangs. 

And he shouldn’t be feeling guilty over choices that he had never been a part of or could change. He was, because Strike was here and if he could do all these things to make life better for others. He got Rook and Skysickle on parole. Stripewire wanted Andi for his coding and the sickly phrase would have a better existence on the orbital station. Brushguard would be joining them, his specialty would be put to immediate use in shaping the bare boned world. 

He should be able to do something for his own relative. It was just how could he jeopardize his mission and the life of his mate and two others for a burnt out ex junky.


	13. Strike part 4

Things had started to slow over the deca -cycles. Both minis were on parole leaving a gap in the work force. And then there was him. Strike looked up boldly from his work table of sorting rock, ores, and energon and meet the intimidating face of his stalker. He snorted and turned back to his job. 

“So, what did you do to earn your very own stalker? And a cannibal at that.” Strike snorted and pushed Andi away, giving a “Go away,” as he shifted ore. “Or do your job.” Anywhere but pressed up against his frame as if they were familiar with each other. 

“He has a point. Out of all the guards to take an interested, it is the cannibal.” Shadow Striker replied. “You should get a face out of him.”

“What?” Strike shoved the phraser more firmly away with his pede and stared at the femme. “Why?”

“Well one, you can see if he kept his original interfacing equipment or if he rotates them out like toys.” She grinned, running her glossa over her lips lewdly. “He has to be a hung, cause why go through all the stigma of swapping parts if you aren’t going to, ow. What was that for?” Shadow grumbled at her sister, rubbing the spot where Roulette had hit her. 

“Though she does have a point. Maybe you can use him to get out of this place.” Roulette lifted up a basket full of energon crystals. “Mechs, they always thing with their spikes,” she clicked her glossa. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t use it to your advantage. You can interface with the guards if you want to. That why they have the conjugal rooms.” 

“You’re slagging me.”

“Nope, how did you think I ended up with sparklings in here?” 

Strike paused looking at Andi and shoved him again with his pede, watching the phrase snicker as he slid farther away. “Did not need to know that. At all.” He didn’t need to think about interfacing, or if Shadow Striker was right and the possibility of multiple mods or even more hidden under that panel and ugh. 

“Unicron end you all in the pit. I didn’t need to think about that.” Strike grumbled and shifted slightly, focusing on the rocks and not the possibility of a warm frame next to him for a night.


	14. Shortfuse and Gearbox take two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Living on a space station is quite a bit different then living on a planet.

The noise kept him awake. Shortfuse should be recharging, he wanted to be recharging, but the steady thrum of the engines and all the little noises that was a working ship. Gearbox found the noise soothing, his lover – how strange to mean it in that way – had conked out the moment he hit the berth. 

Shortfuse shut his optics, letting his pedes dangling from the catwalk, slowly swinging them back and forth in thought. They got together to solve what should have been a simple problem, quid pro quo. He needed a roommate, Gear just wanted to piss of his ‘tor. Well, Gear needed a roommate too that wasn’t in his ‘tors pocket and Shortfuse enjoyed winding up Stripewire. 

It had been fun and what had started as roommates morphed into pretend lovers. They dated, snuggled, and for some reason, half-drunk out of their processors decided to ‘face. It had been awkward and then it had been brilliant. Shortfuse would admit he was a tad bit of a hedonist. Interfacing to simply overload was perfectly fine with him. Gearbox wasn’t his usual type. He was sturdy instead of slender, common really. But Gear’s was warm, a living frame with an inviting comforting field and not a dream. 

None of those tiny little racer models ever graced his berth. Nor his shows and they were still pleasing to the optics, and Primus knew he looked but they weren’t Gear. His bulky, four door sedan with the sweetest of sparks. 

Shortfuse shifted, opening his optics as the sound of footsteps and the brush of a familiar field. “You should be recharging.” He said softly, looking up at Gearbox and the gentle swell of his abdomen. “Both of you.”

A snort answer and Gearbox collapsed, not a hint of grace and Shortfuse found it cute. “You were gone.” His larger lover settled behind him, leaning against his arm. “Can’t recharge?” 

“No. It just loud.” He sighed, squirming into the warm frame till comfortable, feeling the slight budge of their sparkling against his back. Shortfuse gave a soft sound and looked out, watching the slowly twisting planet before them as it was cyberformed, sending a plume of hot metal into the air. 

“Could get you something.” 

“Don’t want anything.” He didn’t want drugs. Not now. And that was something he never considered leaving his mouth, let alone thinking about. “Think I can persuade your ‘Tor to soundproof our room?” 

“Possibly. We could return, and I could do my best to exhausted you and see if we can keep up our neighbors. Make it a public service.” 

Shortfuse laughed, clinging to his lover. “You.. I, just yes. Please.”


	15. Snapwire / Steelshine/Noose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lessons 
> 
> Snapwire takes his children out on a hunt. 
> 
> Death of mecha-animal and then hints at eating it raw.

His footsteps brought up clouds of dust as he stalked cyber boar across the dusty sun cracked plans of Vos’s boarder lands. Snapwire lifted his helm, making sure his youngling mech and sparkling daughter were in sight but out of danger. 

Steelshine fidgeted under his glaze, perched on a rocky outcropping, and shifted Noose farther on his shoulder, the tiny femling shifting and burrowing deeper into his neck cables. Satisfied that his offspring were safe, Snapwire turned back to his prey. 

There was a pair, likely mated, young and underweight digging up the roots of a twisting snarl tangle tree. Snapwire shifted, slowly approaching, spear held under his arm. It was noon, and the heat worked for him and against his foe. His prey were seeking sheltered in the little shade offered and rooting for the energon rich roots. 

He vented and sprung from his spot, pedes hit the cracking ground and set up a puff of dust as he sprinted towards them. Snapwire narrowed in slightly smaller boar, larger tusks and likely male. He twisted sharply, gaining on the creature and sprung. 

His clawed toes broke through thin outer plating and he followed through with the spear, driving it deep into the boar’s neck as his weight knocked it over on its side. He twisted back, looking at the second and relaxed slight. The other boar had bolted. 

Snapwire relaxed his toes, pulling them out first before jerking his spear free. He stepped off of his prey, circling twice before dragging his kill back to his offspring. Snapwire sat down and raked his foot over the belly, gutting it and dragged out the offal.


End file.
